Over the Hill
by young.and.younger
Summary: The title says it all. Scarlett, Rhett and their midlife-crisis mobiles. Cowritten by skyebugs and Ieyre.
1. Chapter 1

If someone had told Rhett Butler that one day he would find himself waiting for his wife to come out of a meeting with the most progressive women in England, he would have suggested they switched to softer drinks. And yet, triggered by spirits though it might have been, that prediction would have proved deadly accurate and still paled in comparison to the eccentricity of the present day.

For it was Scarlett's 40th birthday, and apparently he was meant to celebrate it alone on a sidewalk in London, surrounded by a sea of cigar stumps, while she was busy championing the cause of the Rational Dress Association, along with several old maids of liberal frame of mind and a couple of middle-aged women that had traded bullying their husbands for bullying the world at large.

Like it had been the case with most calamities in his life, this had all started with his wife getting an idea into her head. Well, for accuracy's sake, a _series_ of vaguely-connected, twisted ideas, each in itself worthy of the Preposterous Ponderings Award, he amended to himself, as he stuffed his hands into his pockets and leaned against a gaslight pole—the very picture of husbandly resignation.

He could have—should have—foreseen this course of events, but the first phase of Scarlett's transformation had been so insidious and innocent looking, had developed over the span of so many months, that not even in retrospect could he lay full blame on himself for ignoring the signs.

After all, when their attempts to have a new baby failed, and with Wade having spread his wings some five years ago, it was only inevitable that Scarlett would focus at least part of her attention on Ella. And if others, including Ella herself, were surprised by the dedication with which Scarlett took up her new role as a mother, Rhett was not, because he knew, or told himself that he knew, the cause.

For as her daughter was going through the awkward age to precede her days as marrying material, Scarlett had had another glimpse at how far she was from the cherished model of Ellen and she decided to remedy that by doing exactly what her mother had done when her daughters were Ella's age. She applied herself to the task of turning the girl into a Southern Belle.

Truth be told, it would have been just as easy, if not easier, to teach a blind man the fine art of shooting moving targets, but that was Scarlett for you, always willing to disregard the height of the fence she had to jump. She gave the matter a little consideration, assessing her daughter's bony figure and lusterless ginger hair, and decided she would turn her into the most sought-after girl in town. It never happened, though Ella's stand among the belles of Atlanta did benefit a great deal from her mother's lessons—lessons that in both spirit and method spelled Mammy more than they did Ellen.

The intense scrutiny and constant nitpicking of her now-doting mother had been enough to make the girl almost long for the old lukewarm days of neglect. But it all paid off. Ella secured a match and walked down the aisle, small and quiet on Rhett's arm, shining in the light of true beauty for a moment. A short and singular moment in her entire existence, the general consensus between her acquaintances was. As expected by anyone minus her mother, she dropped the belle veneer with the indolence one would let a loose, useless shoe slip out of their feet some ten seconds after saying her vows, and stepped into the skin of the dull, twitter-brained wife she was born to be. And this was how the first act of the comedy ended, with everyone dabbing their eyes at the prospect of matrimonial happiness, blissfully unaware of the trouble looming ahead.

Because once the shivers of her fourth bridal experience, this time lived through her daughter, faded away, Scarlett's restlessness rose to new heights. Keeping an eye on Tara from a distance and taking care of her enterprises on Atlanta were not keeping her busy enough. And once Ella ceased to be an interesting project, Scarlett turned her never-tiring energy on two new targets, or, better said, renewed her attack on two old targets: the Peachtree mansion and her husband. The house was the first to cave in, figuratively speaking.

Rhett would always remember the day he came home to find his wife in an old housedress, surrounded by cans of paint and all sorts of weird-looking utensils. During the previous two months the house had undergone not one, not two, but three redecorations, each one serving to make him look back with fondness at the old days and wonder why he hadn't appreciated what he had. True, crimson had been tiring to both his eyes and his aesthetic sense, but there were worse alternatives. He knew now, through direct, excruciating experience, that at least three other colors could compete with crimson to make a house look like a bad opium-triggered fantasy: Irish green, magenta and royal blue.

On the bright side, though, his wife's eyesight seemed to have improved with age, or at least that was the conclusion he was inclined to derive from her exclamations after each of the redecorating experiments: "Oh, how could you let me choose this color? I must have been out of my mind; it makes my eyes bleed." But if the first two chromatic accidents (three, counting the initial crimson) were easily remedied, royal blue proved to be a more durable eyesore. The team of workers Scarlett had hired that morning declared that there was no way they could cover deep blue with light yellow—_beige_, she had muttered under her breath—they needed to remove all the layers of paint before applying a new one, and that meant time. Time Scarlett didn't have. She wanted change and she wanted it _now_.

"_I survived a war and faced a Yankee army all by myself. I lived through poverty and starvation. I ran a plantation and owned three businesses. I—" she paused, briefly out of breath. _

"_Buried two husbands and have everything in place to kill the third," Rhett offered smoothly. _

"_I have worked harder than any of those men have in their lives," she carried on, without even bothering to frown at his quip. _

"_So I refuse to be defeated by some paint." She spit the last word like it burned her tongue. "I am going to do this myself and you are going to help me." _

_She had a look of frenzied determination he easily recognized and, if 16 years of marriage had taught him anything, it was that this was a no-win situation. He could of course refuse to help her now, but he knew he had no real chance of convincing her to drop her maniacal project and he would have to give in at some point. She would cry, give him the cold shoulder or destroy the house. Either way, he would have no peace and quiet till the damned paint was on the equally damned wall. _

_He sighed and took off his coat, taking the brush Scarlett had extended towards him with the stern, solemn gesture of a queen investing a knight. _

_Two hours later, both the queen and her knight were staring tiredly at the parlor wall. Judging by the indefinably muddy, fluctuating tint of the surface and the looks on their faces, they had just made a discovery of groundbreaking importance. Light paint wouldn't cover darker one. _

_Rhett was the first to break the silence _"_A splendid impressionist mural!'' he drawled, pointing at their joint masterpiece. "And now, my dear, may I suggest you leave a signature for the posterity to acknowledge your talents?" _

_She gave him an annoyed look, and he cleared his throat before continuing, in a slightly more serious tone. _"_Well, two things shine through here—besides the initial color of this wall, I mean. We need to move. And, also, some artistic movements might welcome your originality, but if your dream was to become a house painter…" _

_The rest of his words were lost on Scarlett, who stood suddenly transfixed by an idea. _

"_Move?" she turned to him with shining, feverish eyes. "Yes, Rhett, that's a great idea. Oh, let's move! We can sell this house and build a new one. This one is so outdated anyway; I don't think it can be fixed. Or better—let's travel!"_

_He eyed her with the smallest hint of uncertainty in his features. Something in the unusual picture she presented, with her clothes all stained with paint and her hair coming out of its pins, made him hesitate at an idea that would have otherwise pleased him immensely. _

"_I don't know, Scarlett. We need to—" _

_But his words were efficiently stopped by his wife inching closer and standing on tiptoes to put her arms around his neck. "It would be so good, so nice to travel," she whispered against his cheek, extremely close to the corner of his mouth, her breath brushing against his lips at every word. "You could show me all those places you always talk about."_

_He knew this game. He knew this woman. He had seen her before—this was the Scarlett that was not only determined, but also fully capable of converting curtains into ultimate seduction weapons, the Scarlett that would stop at nothing once she'd made up her mind on what she needed. He'd be damned if he fell for this. _

"_Scarlett, I—"_

_It was as if she hadn't even noticed he was talking. She didn't try to smother his words; she simply dismissed them like they were never uttered, as she drew even closer and covered his lips with hers, in one brief, light kiss. And then another, and another…_

_Yes, he knew this game._

_She would part his lips and then withdraw without tasting his mouth, going back to the beginning in the tantalizing semblance of yet another innocent kiss, till he needed her, needed to feel and taste her thoroughly and his arms finally closed on her waist._

_It wasn't her simple presence, the warmth of her body slanted against his, what made him unwilling to fight the temptation. It was the strange—and, if he were honest, quite intoxicating—contrast between the pressure of Scarlett's hands, joined at the nape of his neck and pulling him down as she was trying to support her weight, and the soft, deceivingly shy note of her kisses. It was the mixture of things she did on purpose, endearing parts of what she ridiculously thought, even after all these years, seduction was, like automatically batting her eyelashes before making contact with his lips, and the things she was unaware of, but that made something stir inside of him, like the way she would draw away out of breath, but without breaking the kiss, forcing him to either follow her or tighten his grip to keep her in place. _

_But it still meant nothing. Responding to her kisses was not acceding to her other wishes. _

_And then Scarlett played the one card that could still secure her the victory. She refused to bask in the rush of triumph his reaction awakened in her. At the feeling of his arms on her waist, she let go of his neck and slid down to her normal height, allowing Rhett to tower over her and take initiative. Which he didn't hesitate in doing, as he brought one of his hands to the back of her head and deepened the teasing kiss she had initiated._

_She stood there, suddenly compliant and submissive, receiving his kisses, without returning them; and he doubled his efforts, incensed by the added thrill of the hunt. He was now kissing the reluctant Scarlett of the past, the one that would place her hands on his chest to keep him at a proper distance, even while willingly parting her lips to his intrusion. He was conquering her anew, and she was slowly beginning to respond under the ministration of his hands and lips. _

_If he lived to be a hundred, it would never cease to amaze him how a woman with the prey drive of a deadly huntress could shiver under his touch and make him feel like the predator. But then the tables turned again, as a more familiar Scarlett—the one he'd had in his bed for the last years—placed her hands on either side of his face, returning his kisses, and for a fleeting second, he had the impression of holding not one, but three different women in his arms, dissolving into one another so fast he could hardly keep track. _

_And then again, what would stop him from having this woman in every country of Europe? The children had left the nest, what better time for their parents—still in the prime of their lives, by his calculations—to seize the day? Why cling to this place? True, something was not right about his wife's recent disposition, but he could figure it out just as easily in Paris or Rome. _

_She interrupted the kiss and broke away, slightly breathless. For a moment they stared at each other in silence, but then the amused flicker in Rhett's eyes and the warmth of his hands as they cupped her cheeks, thumbs lightly brushing her lips, seemed to convince Scarlett that this was the moment she had been waiting for. She knew his answer before starting to whisper, in a voice that held not even the semblance of a pleading note, "Please, let's do this, please."_

_Two weeks later they were on a steamboat to Europe. _

And, for a short period, traveling did prove the best cure for whatever it was that had unsettled Scarlett. Looking back at the facts with the knowledge he now had, it made complete sense. The crux of the problem that he had foolishly ignored at the time, the underlying cause that had triggered this yearning for changes of any kind had been his wife's apprehension at the idea of aging. For a woman that had solemnly declared the end of her life at seventeen and constantly since then, thirty-nine was bound to be an age of nightmare and terror. It was no wonder that she had wanted to leave the States.

The South had myriad of strings that simultaneously tied her down and made her feel out of place. She was too young to be buried with the holy relics of the Old South and too old for the New South to acknowledge her as one of their active forces, or at least that was how she felt. Just like Rhett had predicted all those years ago, the new generation, the one of her children, didn't approve of Scarlett more than the previous one had. And their rejection, stemming from a subtle attachment to old ideas and customs, to stereotypes Mrs. Butler would never fit, she naively attributed to the fact that she was getting older.

She was getting older, and everyone would expect her to behave like a matron, to dress in ghastly colors, adorn the walls at social events, talk and laugh sedately. In actual fact, the generic "everyone" was only characterized by a fading, vague interest in both Scarlett and her doings, only that she could never admit anything as appalling as not being the center of attention anymore. She worried about what people expected from her, now that they really didn't expect much, more than she had when they were actively trying to reform her ways. After eluding absurd rules for her entire adult life, after dismissing etiquette on more occasions that Rhett could count (as hard and often as he tried), she was afraid the trap was finally closing in on her.

And at first sight it seemed that she had chosen the right destination for quelling these fears. Europe had no such prejudices. Europe didn't believe in old age, but in eternal beauty. She herself, the darling old continent, was a prime example of that principle. Ancient as time and skillfully disguising her age with all the refinement of a decadent courtesan, Europe held an instant charm for Scarlett, and vice versa.

Like most successful relationships, theirs was based on mutual misunderstanding. Europe would clap at the novelty and peculiar beauty of the lovely American, dismissing her true, much more fascinating nature, just as Scarlett would frown at the dilapidated state of the Roman vestiges—"Yes, I do understand it's thousands of years old, but, if they didn't want to replace it, couldn't they at least repair it a little bit?"—but fully appreciate the smaller, perfected replicas adorning the gardens of Italian parvenus—"And pray, what are you laughing at now? What in God's name is wrong with admiring well-kept ruins?"

It had been the most entertaining spectacle to watch, and Rhett could not help a smile from forming on his lips, looking back at the time they had spent in Rome and then in Paris. Short-lived agreeable times before all cosmetic hell broke loose.

Because, while the Europeans did not embrace the idea of a woman automatically turning into a matron at a set age, they did have their own constricting stands on the matter. An old house you recognized by the cracks in its walls, and an old woman by her wrinkles, so European women strived to conceal any token of their age. Scarlett, who had always had to keep herself from running to a mirror if someone so much as mentioned the word "wrinkle," energetically adhered to this principle, and it wasn't long before she embarked on a regular crusade against the smallest signs of aging, rallying around her all the wisdom women's magazines, folktales and parlor gossip could provide.

She had always abided by a rigorous nightly routine that, along with brushing her hair the mandatory one hundred strokes, included a list of small rituals that Mammy had claimed would keep her skin young forever, but now all this seemed insufficient, and she started experimenting with various recipes that were supposed to have instant and miraculous effects.

At first she had been ashamed of her beautifying campaign and tried to hide it with amusing, if unsatisfactory results. Over the years, Rhett had grown so accustomed to her routine and sleeping habits that it could hardly escape his notice that his wife, ever the late sleeper, would sneak out of bed at the crack of dawn, her morning toilet obviously done when she returned to feign sleep for another half-hour. He, of course, would retaliate by draping a heavy arm over her while pretending to be asleep and laughing inwardly at her clumsy attempts of wriggling free without waking him up. One morning, he even managed to detain her completely, and she had silently seethed the entire day.

But soon the amusement started to wear off. He had been on the verge of friendly advising her to drop the pretense when two of the most unexpected elements—arsenic and flying potatoes, to be precise—changed his appeasing intentions.

In short, he had returned to their hotel one day, after taking a morning stroll, to be greeted at the reception by a parcel that had arrived for Scarlett. It took him only a few seconds to decide the "s" in "Mrs. Rhett Butler" written on the front was a certain slip of the pen and subsequently open the package. And he had every reason to congratulate himself on his decision once he saw the content: two boxes of Complexion Arsenic Wafers. Arsenic as an aid of beauty had been around for a considerable period, though it was only in the last years that cosmetic products based on it had flooded the market, to the benefit of all ladies longing for a wan skin. But it wasn't the prospect of his wife going for a fashionable graveyard pallor what angered him. There was no such thing as "harmless arsenic," and the cases of women having suffered the consequences after gullibly swallowing the miracle cure for "blotch, blemish, coarseness, redness, pimples, and—_wonder of wonders—_freckles," as one side of the box advertised, had made the headlines in American newspapers.

He entered their room with every intention of giving Scarlett a piece of his mind, but stopped dumbfounded in the doorframe at the sight of…_flying potato slices_? _What in God's name…_

What happened was that he had surprised Scarlett with his early return. She had been in the middle of yet another of her experiments, this time enlisting potatoes in the quest for everlasting youth. At the sound of the door, she did the only thing that seemed rapid enough for this desperate situation: she got rid of the compromising slices of potato on her face with one shove of her hand, sending them flying everywhere. Unfortunately, the innocent smile she gave her husband was rendered useless by the evident proofs of her activity lying on the carpet.

It took all his self-control not to roar with laughter and instead sternly disclose his position on the matter of arsenic and related poisons. If that was her wish, she could continue to fire all the silver bullets in the world at wrinkles, including potato projectiles here—he pointed at the floor—without him interfering, but poison would remain off-limits.

She didn't retort in kind, only listened with stormy eyes—her cheeks reddening slightly at the "wrinkles" part—and nodded at his words. But soon after that day her cosmetic program became open and belligerent, culminating one night, a week or so after they had arrived in London.

_He looked up at her over his glasses—he had resorted to wearing glasses when reading his newspaper, especially in the evenings, for a couple of years now—and, for one of the few instances in their married life, he couldn't find one thing to say. She had been almost an hour late in coming to bed, but when she did come…what an appearance!_

_After a few seconds of appraising her in silence, trying to gather his wits, he finally cleared his throat._

_"There has never been a man more committed to the cause of contemporary art than myself," he started in a __dégagé_ tone, smirking slightly at the perplexed look he could more divine than actually see his words had put on Scarlett's face."Some express admiration from afar, others buy paintings or make donations. I, on the other hand, started by having the sunrise of Le Havre reproduced on my parlor wall, all with your precious contribution of course," he nodded in deference. "And now I see I married a woman who decided to turn her very face into an impressionist painting. Darling, I can only applaud your artistic courage." 

_During this outflow of drawling eloquence, the living impressionist work had marched to her side of her bed and now stood propped up against the pillow, arms crossed over her chest, her features covered by a thin layer of some dubious substance, that both in texture and color resembled quite closely the infamous beige paint they had tried to put on their wall in Atlanta months ago. _

_"I don't see your point," she started petulantly. "This is just a secret ancient recipe for a facial ointment that—"_

_"Just a secret ancient recipe? Well, that certainly clarifies it, thank you for pointing it out. But, dare I ask, how did you come by this treasured mystery of yore?"_

_"I can't see what business is of yours," came her curt reply. "I remember you saying I could do whatever I wanted as long as it didn't involve arsenic. And as far as I know, this does not contain any arsenic, so there." _

_As much as it irked him to admit it, she had a point, so he changed tactics. "It's no business of mine per se, but once you climbed into bed wearing that, er, bewitching mask I think it becomes my business." _

_"Oh?" she smiled—or rather grimaced—flirtatiously, mistaking the meaning of his words. _

_"Yes," he continued unperturbed, "I wouldn't want you besmirching my humble bed with that esoteric lotion of yours." _

_The smiling grimace turned into a frowning one, the difference almost imperceptible under her face mask. "For your information, this is my bed too. And I won't 'besmirch' anything. I'm going to sleep on my back so I won't even touch the pillow."_

_"Really?" he grinned, reclining on his pillow. "So you are not afraid of soiling anything?" _

_Scarlett shook her head and he continued. "Then may I ask why you are wearing this?" he pointed at her plain long-sleeved nightgown, as she extinguished the lamp. _

_"Why, what's wrong with it?" she asked, assuming her sleeping position, stiff on her back, barely daring to move her head in any direction. _

_"Nothing is wrong with it, it's just that you prefer—or, shall I say, we both prefer—your silk __négligée_s. So the only reason for you to wear this modest, uncharacteristic nightgown is the fact that you were afraid you would soil your garments anyway, so you—"

_"Rhett, if you say another word, I shall scream," she cut him off abruptly. "Hush and let me sleep." _

_They stood for a few minutes in silence, both staring at the ceiling. And then Scarlett shifted closer, without moving her neck, till her shoulder was pressed against his. Touched by a sudden rush of sympathy for his bullheaded, irrational wife he shifted to his side and put an arm over her, only to draw back, scrunching his nose. _

_"Scarlett, what does this ointment of yours contain exactly?" _

_"Why?" she retorted suspiciously. _

_"Just humor me." _

_"Well," she started reciting the ingredients like a poem, "almond oil, lard, candle wax, and onion juice."_

_Every word hit his sense of humor with the force of a bullet, and he couldn't decide whether he wanted to add to the hilarity of this situation by making fun of his wife, or her "secret ancient" recipe had been enough and he could simply lie back and laugh till he cried. It was only a moment's hesitation, because even after hearing what he deemed was the best joke in years, he still couldn't resist the simple boyish pleasure riling Scarlett would bring. _

_"I must say I am relieved to hear that." _

_"I thought congratulations were in order," he elaborated, sensing her puzzlement, "since you had just driven me to tears for the first time in our rather long acquaintance. I should have suspected you'd be one to cheat. Though I have to admit onion juice—quite a nice touch." _

_He sat up as he talked, ignoring the small sounds that marked his wife's increasing anger, and placed his pillow between them, adding some of smaller decorative pillows on top of it. _

_"What are you doing?" she said, turning her head slightly in his direction. _

_"I am resorting to defensive strategies. I'm building a barricade to get me safely through the night." _

_"But—"_

_"No buts. We both know the Onion Lady would try to use me as a pillow during the night, preferably after she snatched my covers too, so I'm not taking any chances." _

_And that had been the last straw for Scarlett's straining temper. _

_"Fine," she nearly yelled, getting out of bed. "If it bothers you that damn much, I will clean it off! Are you happy now?" _

_"Just don't forget the __négligée_ when you come back!" he offered helpfully. She turned towards him, murderously furious, managing a few "You, you—" through clenched teeth, before storming into the dressing room and slamming the door with all her force. 

_Rhett smiled in triumph, repositioning his pillows._

He had been an idiot, he belatedly realized. He should have done anything in his power to reassure her, not tease her and force her hand like that. This was the first thing for which he blamed himself in the peculiar turn of events that led to the present situation.

The other was buying Scarlett a bicycle.

* * *

**True story with Scarlett's recipe for her beauty mask, those are the gross ingredients of an actual recipe from the 17th century. **

**This story was supposed to be a one-shot, but it got out of control so we decided to cut it in two. Second chapter, we get to see Rhett's own midlife crisis.**


	2. Chapter 2

It is a truth universally acknowledged that no one but a child could guilelessly believe that all the errors of the past would be remedied and obliterated from the mind by simply saying, "I'm sorry." And since he was way past his childhood years and none too guileless for that, Rhett naturally decided that resorting to those three words to placate his wife's wrath would only prove a futile, if not altogether harmful endeavor.

But then again, why would he need apologies when he could use something consistently better, something that would express regret and peaceful intentions with the eloquence of a hundred words—and about as many pounds sterling? Something that would make Scarlett's grudges fly away at an average speed of 10 miles per hour, and all without the danger of heartbreak, neck break or any other mishaps?

We proudly present to you Rhett Butler's official solution for matrimonial crises: the Rover 1885 safety bicycle.

The idea for such an acquisition originated in a Sunday stroll the Butlers took in the Battersea Park, which incidentally happened to also be the place of choice for the high-society cyclists of London to exercise their skills. As a herd of twittering, colorfully-attired women on wheels passed by them, Rhett was just preparing a witty remark on the return of the amazons in modern society, when he stopped, suddenly alerted of his wife's change of mood by the involuntary squeeze she gave his arm. She didn't say anything but her green eyes were shining with obvious interest, in a way he had come to miss over the last weeks.

After that momentous, comical night, Scarlett had ceased her cosmetic antics altogether. She had been cross with her husband for more than a week, one of the longest fights they had gotten into after their reconciliation all those years ago. And, when he finally managed to pacify her, he discovered with a certain amount of unease that they had yet to revert entirely to the situation of before. It was hard to put a finger on the cause, but Scarlett was somehow different. She was more subdued; she was quiet in a disturbing way, and all his efforts of cheering her up amounted to nothing.

In typical Rhett Butler style, he then decided that the only thing crushing his wife's spirit was the weight of her reputation and the best way of helping her would be by doing his best to once again relieve her of that burden. He wanted her to experience the thrill of shunning convention anew, to raise her chin defiantly at the world—well, the world minus himself, if possible. So, since Scarlett seemed to show interest in the cycling fever that had spread among London's feminine elite, and women cyclists were still largely frowned upon, Rhett decided this was the perfect opportunity to present his wife with a gift.

In retrospect, he was firmly convinced giving Scarlett strychnine and permission to fix his morning coffee would have brought him far less trouble than buying her a bicycle did. To begin with, he had had to survive through the long, torturous days of her learning to ride the contraption, days filled with all sort of minor accidents and collisions. Scarlett herself came through unscathed, for it was after all a _safety_ bicycle that she was riding, but her husband's shin, wallet—as a long row of sweepers had been bruised by Mrs. Butler and bribed by Mr. Butler those days—and toes suffered a great deal.

When Scarlett finally accomplished the monumental task and was able to pedal gracefully for extended periods of time, Rhett was ready to thank God on bended knee. It was a good thing he abstained from that though, going for a cigar and smiling approvingly at his wife from the distance instead, because he would soon come to recognize the bicycle as God's retribution for all his past misdeeds.

It had been during one of these rides in the Battersea Park that Scarlett met Miss Neilsen for the first time. And it had been Miss Neilsen—an old maid with the brain of a bird and the voice of a Stentor, as Rhett gracefully described her—that had introduced Scarlett to the Rational Dress Association.

The said Association, functioning at first as the Rational Dress Society, had been formed almost four years before by two resourceful ladies: Mrs. King, who would also serve as the perpetual secretary, and Lady Harberton, the leading force and president. Their declared goal had been to bring the light of reason into women's fashion, an enterprise from which less courageous beings would have undoubtedly shrank.

But not only that the lady founders were naturally courageous, they also had a strategic advantage previous generations had lacked: the sudden importance that was being placed on healthy exercise, and especially on cycling. In light of this, they started their campaign, protesting against the wearing of tight corsets, of high-heeled shoes, of heavy skirts—since those rendered cycling almost impossible—and of all tie-down cloaks or other garments hindering the movements of the arms. It was because of all these frivolous trappings that women couldn't enjoy the benefits of sports; it was because of these fripperies that they were sharing the dull fate of statues. These had to be abolished if women were to conquer their freedom.

Scarlett, who thrived in all these women rejected, was far from having the dress reform in mind when she let Miss Neilsen convince her to attend a meeting. She first went to a tea party of the Association driven by the desire to meet some of the richest and most distinguished women of London, women that she vaguely understood would have had enough reasons to snub her.

And they had all welcomed her with open arms. After all, Scarlett was coming from the country of Elizabeth Stanton and Amelia Bloomer, even though she seemed strangely unfamiliar with those names, and only shrugged dismissively—"Yankees!"—at hearing that the two ladies, initiators of a similar movement in the 50s, were from New York. But those were just the peculiarities of the Americans; they wouldn't hold something like that against the poor girl.

However, it hadn't been this wave of unanimous sympathy what made the charming American return to the meetings of the Association. It had been the Viscountess' fascinating personality. At age 42, Florence, Lady Harberton was the kind of woman that inspired respect, without inspiring fear—an extremely rare trait and one that made her very suitable as mentor of young malleable minds. And, though Scarlett's mind didn't exactly meet either of those standards, Lady Harberton exercised a certain fascination over her from their very first encounter. She couldn't quite explain her feeling, but it was like seeing the grace of her mother again—Ellen that had never reached this age—only coupled with the sort of overt energy she had always admired in herself and a handful of other women.

And besides, she and Lady Harberton saw eye to eye in at least one essential matter. The Viscountess was convinced that the world was wrong—it had to be since it was ruled by men. Scarlett herself saw little inconvenience in men ruling—or telling themselves that they were ruling—but she candidly subscribed to the idea that she was living in one of the worst possible worlds. Any world that allowed such great an injustice as Scarlett O'Hara turning 40 had to be utterly and rottenly wrong. A friendship more solid than one stemming from agreement on the structure of the universe could hardly be imagined.

And so Scarlett continued to frequent the society of these progressive women much to her husband's amusement. At this point, he was watching her actions with the superior smile one would watch the heedless gambols of a child. But there was a palpable tension lingering in the air, the sort of silent wait that announces the impending break of a storm.

And it wasn't long before Rhett saw himself face to face with that storm.

"_Trousers? You want to wear trousers?" he asked, with one eyebrow raised in amused disbelief. _

"_Oh, these are not trousers, Rhett! This is what is called a dual skirt," she said pointing at the garment she had borrowed from Mrs. King to show to her husband. _

_Dual skirts, or bifurcated garments as they were advertised, were the Association's solution to the problems that cycling posed to women. Pedaling in long, heavy skirts was not the easiest task in the world, and accidents—ranging from passers-by glimpsing at one's underclothes to major injuries and even death—were quite frequent. The dual skirts, which could just as well be described as loose trousers, as the opponents pointed out, offered the semblance of a skirt when the owner was standing, but the comfort of trousers when riding the bicycle. Why stop at one, when you can have them both?_

"_Let us not argue semantics now," he shrugged. It was a surprising decision coming from Scarlet. He had always believed that if Heaven didn't come with a wardrobe bursting with stylish dresses, his wife would most probably turn down the offer of a celestial afterlife. But then again, one could always count on Scarlett to have sudden, extreme shifts in her affections—so maybe that was the case here as well. He decided the best course of action would be to abide by her foolish plan and see where it would lead. _

_"So how should we proceed with this new fashion statement of yours?"_

"_What do you mean how 'should we proceed'?" _

"_Well," he started good-humoredly, "am I supposed to take you along the next time I visit my tailor? 'Henry, I need you to make a suit for myself and a pair of trousers for my lovely wife here'?" _

"_Don't be ridiculous, of course I won't go to your tailor," his lovely, sarcasm-impaired wife answered. "There are plenty of good seamstresses in this city willing to do it. Mrs. King recommended a Mrs. Beck from Hyde Park Street to me. She sews for most of the ladies in the Association so I suppose she's the best." _

Mrs. Beck was indeed the best and soon Scarlett owned a large variety of bifurcated garments, ranging from slim skirts with narrow box pleats all around them to wide skirts with pleats carried up nearly to the waist. She had long coats and loose jackets that didn't require tightlacing, just as the divided skirts didn't require petticoats, since one of the major points in the movement's agenda was to reduce the weight of the underclothes to a maximum of seven pounds—_"Something both myself and my old knees wholeheartedly subscribe to," _Rhett had said.

But that approval didn't spell the end of all his problems, as he might have hoped. Because if the ladies in the Association had another favorite target for their disdain, that had to be the idea of patriarchy. James Pomeroy, the 6th Viscount of Harberton, was an understanding, docile husband, but it was obvious that not all women were that lucky, and Mrs. Butler was a prime example of that. And, the poor girl, she wasn't even aware of her cruel fate.

Because while Rhett Butler was the epitome of all that had ever gone wrong with a man, Scarlett seemed quite taken with him. Not only that the man had a much higher opinion of himself than any objective measurement of reality would have justified, but his wife, for all she wouldn't admit it in front of him, shared that belief. It was quite appalling, and in any case most indecorous, how she would say at random times, "My husband says that," "Rhett said the same thing" or any other absurd reminder of how her husband _simply_ didn't allow her to have an opinion. At first they only shook their heads and secretly referred to him as _the tyrant_, but then they took to the task of gently reforming his wife. There was no reason to let him mock her, belittle her or try to tell her what to do, and there sure as hell was no reason to let him interfere in her wardrobe.

So those were in short the reasons Rhett was standing in front of the Harberton house on Cromwell Road that day. And it was at least the third week in a row he had been doing that. If the feminists were waging a small war against Rhett Butler, then they were winning battle after battle. Scarlett was alternating these days between giving him the cold shoulder and recounting enthusiastically everything her new idol, Lady Harberton, had done or said. He didn't despair though. An _all-women_ association was not something that could hold his wife's attention for long and, besides, many of her new acquaintances were regular bluestockings. What common ground could Scarlett find with them? No, all he had to do was wait patiently, and she will get tired of them—or them of her, whichever came first—the bicycle would fly right under the wheels of a carriage, without his wife on it, and order in the universe would be restored once more.

The massive oak door finally opened and Scarlett appeared, her expressive face wearing an obvious look of relief at seeing him. Could this be the day he had been waiting for all these weeks? She descended the stairs, her rapid motions that regular dresses would have disguised obvious in the disrupted lines of her dual skirt. Normally, the pleated bands would have looked like a single flounce at the hemline, making it difficult to tell the difference from normal skirts, but apparently the garment was not designed to hide Scarlett's energy.

He abandoned his position by the gaslight pole and stepped forward to meet her, already convinced by the fierce light in her eyes that this was _it_. His wife's involvement in the Rational Dress Movement had come to its timely end.

"Madame, your humble servant at your service. Allow me to—"

"Oh, stop this nonsense and let's go," Scarlett cut him off abruptly. "I don't want to spend another second here. You didn't come with a carriage, did you now?" she looked briskly around for any vehicles. "So much the better, we'll walk on foot."

"And the bicycle?" he inquired with a barely concealed smile, already suspecting the answer.

"Oh, forget about the bicycle. I don't want to see it again. It's the worst bore in my life. I don't know what possessed you to buy it. Send someone later to pick it up and we can sell it or otherwise get rid of it," she added, in light of the pecuniary loss simply abandoning the bicycle would have brought.

He bowed slightly, while his mind was assessing how many glasses of brandy would make an appropriate celebration for finally slaying the two-wheeled monster. "To the hotel?"

"No," his wife shook her head energetically, "no, I can't stand the hotel now. Let's go somewhere, let's take a stroll or—I don't know—just do something else."

Rhett offered his arm and they started slowly up Queen's Gate towards the park. It was quite a long distance, and they walked in silence. Scarlett's rage was subsiding; he could feel it in the way her initially brisk gait had lost its momentum. As they were about to enter the Kensington Gardens, he finally ventured the question, looking at her from the corner of his eye.

"So what did they do wrong?"

"Who did what wrong?" she answered absent-mindedly.

"Your friends from the Association. They must have done something wrong since yesterday you were praising them to high heavens and now you are only happy to get away."

"Oh," she dismissed his question with a small wave of hand, "they didn't do anything. I am just a bit weary of them, that's all."

"Is that so? And how did this weariness insinuate itself?" he carried on, mercilessly. "It must have been building up for some time then, this dissatisfaction; their actions must have grown quite tiresome for you; you must have found yourself in disagreement with some of their most cherished principles."

"So is that how it happened, Scarlett?" he inquired after a small pause, his face the picture of ingenuous interest.

"I don't know. It's just that they treat me like I'm—like I'm a child or something—like I'm one of their projects. Lady Harberton wants me to change my manners, my accent—"

"Your husband," he supplied, as he stepped aside, letting her sit down first.

She ignored his quip, as she sat down and removed her hat, placing it beside her on the bench. "And on top of that," she continued, "they can't at least show the decency not to talk about improper subjects."

"Improper subjects?" Rhett raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me they offended your sensitive nature. I'm afraid I'm going to have to prove my gentlemanly virtues and challenge Lady Harberton to a duel then, to defend my wife's honor. I will not shoot on anyone wearing a skirt—but trousers, now that's an entirely different matter…"

At her slight frowning, he continued in a placatory tone. "So, tell me now, what outrageous things did you have to endure from your warrior friends?"

She glared at him. "Never you mind. I'm simply not going back to any meetings again and that's the end of it. All you need to know."

"Scarlett, don't be a child, if you started telling me the story, why not get it all out? It would make you feel better."

But his encouragement was really unnecessary, since Scarlett was barely containing her indignation and needed little incentive to start pouring it in words.

"Well, they were always talking nonsense anyway, but now they started having this awful conversation about how—how it benefits a woman to grow older and—"

So that was the real problem, she had been reminded of her birthday. He had imagined many scenarios for this moment, but he hadn't expected this ironic turn of events. Of course, when you spend time with someone in order to forget, you don't take it lightly when they—deliberately or not—twist the knife into your wound.

"As if this day wasn't bad enough already, they had to carry on with their stupid opinions about how—how _old,_ " the very word seemed to evoke a physical pain, "women are so much happier."

"Now, wait a second, did they know that today is your birthday?"

It surprised him, because it was a date Scarlett never mentioned to anyone. He'd actually had to extract the precious information from Mammy. If Scarlett had been given discretionary powers over a small country, it was very likely that this day would have been erased from the calendars or, if not, celebrated with the sobriety otherwise reserved for the Good Friday. Rhett himself knew better than to openly remind his wife of it before making sure that at least half a dozen gifts and a bottle of champagne were standing between him and her bad mood.

"No, they did not. They were talking about her ladyship's upcoming 43rd birthday and they—they started joking about it," she emphasized the words, as if they were the most outrageous things ever heard. "And Lady Harberton herself said she's only glad that she's now over 40, so she doesn't have to worry about what she's wearing anymore. Because now no one will pay her a second look when she walks by anyway. I swear, that's exactly what she said," she looked up at him, as if expecting to see her look of indignation reflected in his eyes.

Instead, a small satisfied light flickered in his pupils, before being replaced by the most passive, sympathetic look Rhett Butler could summon. This was the moment. It had taken him too long to realize what was wrong with his wife, but now he finally had the chance of remedying that situation.

"So, naturally, you were appalled by that idea."

"Of course, I was, wouldn't you have been?" He chose to ignore her candid question so she shrugged and continued. "And then she went as far as to say her 40th birthday was the best day of her life because of that. I simply cannot understand it." _Of course you can't, it's irony. _

"Go on," he said instead.

"How can anyone say anything like that? When it's the worst day of my life," her voice started to take on a strained note, "when it's actually the—the very end of my life—"

"Now, I wouldn't go that far. You seem quite healthy, the odds of you saluting saint Peter soon are quite slim."

"Oh, you know what I mean!" she cried.

"Of course, I do. You are afraid that you are getting old and—"

"I'm not _afraid_ that I'm getting old. I _am_ old. Starting with today I am," she declared dejectedly.

"First of all," he started patiently, "you are not old. And secondly, if you were it wouldn't be starting from today. If you're old now, then it's obvious you must have been old for some time."

She huffed, all memory of how she had proclaimed her advanced age minutes ago lost in the indignation his words had brought.

"Don't get your feathers ruffled, Scarlett. What I meant was that you are in no way different than you were twenty or forty hours ago. There is no point in turning a simple day into a tragedy. And, frankly, I don't recall ever seeing a person placing that much emphasis on their birthday. No wise person would—I wouldn't," he offered in the most natural transition.

"Oh, really," she started with a flicker of malicious interest, "so what did _you_ do when you turned forty?"

"Oh, well, er…"

In truth, he remembered that time with extreme clarity—he was thirty-nine when he proposed to Scarlett, and that was one of the most thrilling times of his life—standing on the precipice of his old life, looking into the unknown. His 40th birthday occurred during their "extended" engagement. He spent it in Charleston, with his mother, brother and sister—the first birthday he'd spent at home in a long time (39, for example, he spent with a charming girl in Havana who bore more than a passing resemblance to Scarlett)—but now that dear old Butler senior had gone to his Holy Maker, Rhett's mother insisted he celebrate the landmark occasion with family.

A conversation on that day had led to some rather embarrassing behavior on his part, things that he would rather not admit at this later date…

"_I cannot believe that forty years ago today you were brought into the world, Rhett…it seems like only yesterday."_

_They were in the parlor of the modest brick house he'd bought them after the War—Rosemary smiled gaily, Ross sourly—his colorless wife, Molly, at this side, timid and quiet as always. The party was a quiet, simple affair, as he'd requested—only family members, though Rhett really did wonder why his seething little brother even bothered attending a celebration he so obviously disdained. Seeing Ross and his wife, Rhett couldn't help smiling in blatant self-satisfaction at the thought of his own intended—for, while Molly faded into the background at any given social function, Scarlett shined brightest of the lot, a glittering emerald in a sea of mediocre semiprecious stones._

_And soon she would be his, all his._

"…_I'm only sorry your poor father didn't live to see this day," he heard his mother saying, with less enthusiasm than her previous statement._

_His good mood was immediately soured as his father's face replaced Scarlett's in his mind's eye. Scowling, he tried to banish the image of the stern countenance by deriding its significance._

"_No doubt he would have been surprised I even _made _it to forty," Rhett did not try to conceal the bitter tone in his voice. _

"_That's not true, Rhett," Ross threw in, and before he had even started voicing his thought aloud everyone in the room knew it would be inflammatory. "Father always said you had the 'devil himself in you'—I think he thought you'd _never _die." The words were clearly said with malicious intent, but Rhett let his younger brother's jab roll off his back with finesse._

"_So much the worse for him," he quipped back, cynically. "'The devil in me'?" He snorted. "Did he read that, or was it original? I never knew the old man had even a streak of the poet in him—"_

"_Rhett, don't speak ill of the dead." His mother cut off what no doubt would have been some further cutting remarks made by her eldest son as well as an impending argument between the two boys. In a lighter tone, she continued, "At any rate, I wish he had lived at least long enough to see you settle down—I declare, we all thought you'd _never _marry. Whatever took you so long, Rhett?"_

_She wasn't exaggerating—the entire family had written him off as a hopeless case long ago. She lived in perpetual fear of _never _having a grandchild._

"_Well," he answered, glibly, "The right girl kept marrying the wrong men, Mama, you can't blame me for _that._" If they knew all the details they could, but he was determined to honor Scarlett's request and keep their engagement a secret—or at least, in the case of his family, keep her identity a secret._

"_There you go again, Rhett, saying strange things and never giving me any hints about who my future daughter-in-law is! At least give me a little inkling—"_

"_She's a fairly close relation of two of your friends, is that a good enough hint for you, Mother?" he asked, amused at his mother's enthusiastic support of his nuptials. Mrs. Butler was suspicious of Rhett's never-ending string of visits to Atlanta, suspecting there was more to it than met the eye. When he bounced into Charleston with the news that a girl was taking his name, she was ecstatic. She hoped to meet the woman her son was so obviously taken with._

"_What do you mean she kept marrying the wrong men, Rhett?" Rosemary asked, curiously._

"_Well, little sister, I mean quite plainly—" What a laugh, he was never plain. "—That my dear fiancée has been widowed twice. Her last husband, quite recently—hence the secrecy in our engagement."_

"_You never struck me as the sort to go for a woman who another man's already claimed, let alone two other men," Ross interjected, crudely. Rhett for the first time felt a real stab of annoyance at his brother's insults—in large part because there was actual truth in them. He was a very possessive man, generally—what was his was his, and he wanted people to know it. The knowledge that another man had so much as touched Scarlett before him infuriated Rhett._

_Though in the wake of how Ashley Wilkes had touched her heart first, less than one would think._

"_Well, this woman is worth it, little brother," he shot back, acidly, giving Molly a rather unnecessary cruel once-over. "Some women, believe it or not, are." Ross's wife looked down at her lap, and Ross turned red in anger at the obvious slight._

_Their mother was too busy going over all of her friends in a desperate attempt to figure out who the mysterious fiancée was to notice this exchange. Rosemary was used to the brothers' squabbles and pointedly ignored it._

"_If she's been widowed twice, she can't be a spring chicken anymore, can she, Rhett?" Ross asked, smarmily, possessing only a shadow of his brother's suave charm. "How old is she? Surely you can tell us that much."_

_Rhett found his hackles rising at the insult, even if it was directed more at him than the woman he loved._

"_Well, we all here know that it's rude to ask a lady her age," he said, tersely. "But by my calculations she's no older than twenty-five and no younger than twenty-two." Ross's face didn't fall at the words, instead his eyes brightened in petty glee at the news. He decided to take the opposite tract than his intended abuse._

"_Why, she's just a _girl_, Rhett, young enough to be your daughter!" Ross laughed, and for once Rhett could not think of a quick retort. "And you're on the other side of forty now. Hopefully the girl isn't a—er, black widow, is that what they call 'em?"_

_He grimaced but did not answer, as his mother diffused the moment by chattering on about every single one of her friends and their relations in the hopes that he would reveal Scarlett's name. _

_For some reason, Ross's parting shot stuck in his head for a long time afterward._

_He knew he was older than Scarlett, considerably older—and far more mature. He'd always known that. He'd never taken the time to consider in relative terms just how much older he was._

_He was forty now. Scarlett was probably twenty-three or four. Ross was right—he was old enough to be Scarlett's father._

_The day he'd proposed, he claimed himself the proper age to be Scarlett's husband—not a boy like Charles Hamilton, or an old spinster of a man like Frank Kennedy—but 'the right age', young and capable of showing her a good time—virile too, or he'd implied as much._

_How right had he been to make the claim that he was young?_

_He was forty now._

_Forty was 'old' for a woman, not a man, he reasoned. Forty was the prime of life for a man—young enough to do, wise enough to think better. Men older than him married younger than Scarlett every day. Forty was perfectly fine for a man to marry at._

_Forty was middle-aged._

_And Scarlett was so young, despite her silly vain claims that she was getting wrinkles from having to listen to Ella and Wade and Pitty whine at her all the time. She was barely on the other side of twenty, at least fifteen years younger than him, probably more. He found himself staring in the mirror more than usual in the days following his birthday party, looking for crow's feet and—humiliation beyond the pale—searching his black head desperately for gray hairs._

_He found nine. This was very disconcerting._

_Images of himself, exaggerated images, flooded his mind as the weeks dragged on…his back hunched over, head snow white with a beard to rival Father Time's, only one or two teeth remaining, sitting in a rocking chair, stone deaf, while a still young and vibrant Scarlett sat across the room, wearing the ridiculous engagement ring he'd given her and surrounded by young, handsome and able-bodied suitors (all of which were Ashley Wilkes doubles)—in these nightmarish imaginings Scarlett would pat him, her old fool of a husband, on the back in a condescending manner, and say things to the other men like, "Poor dear, he hasn't been able to walk since he turned forty-five…" or, "From what the doctor tells me, I'll be able to marry one of you nice young fellows soon. He hasn't long for this world, you know." Then she would smile evilly and prance away while his unnaturally old self would fall asleep in the rocking chair pathetically and drool._

_As completely ludicrous as the idea of it was, Rhett let it get to him._

_He read some periodical article which suggested that smoking cigars aged men. He threw away his gold cigar case at once, despite having smoked them his entire adult life._

_The next time he went to visit his little darling in Atlanta, though, he exhibited his most insane behavior._

_He pulled up to Pittypat's house in his brand new carriage._

_His brand new carriage painted bright, fire engine…red._

"_Well, what do you think, my sweet?" He called from the rig to Scarlett, gaping on the porch. "Slick, isn't it?" Actually, it was the most ridiculous-looking thing he'd ever had the misfortune to drive—it looked like the sort of rig a ten-year-old boy with an unlimited allowance would pick for himself. What in holy hell had he been thinking?_

_He'd actually had the red _custom painted_._

"_It's beautiful, Rhett—" Her eyes lit up with childish delight—his stomach lurched at the childish part. "I've never seen a carriage that color before—but I thought you just bought a new carriage last year?" Scarlett's recent financial woes alerted her to the impracticalness of such a purchase. _

"_I figured, 'why not live while you're young'?" he answered, carelessly—too carelessly, but Scarlett was too busy admiring the shiny paint and the two fine new pure white horses he'd bought to pull it. "Hop in, Scarlett." He pulled her up into his ridiculous crimson trap with one hand. The two drove down Decatur Street, and Scarlett delighted in the spectacle they made of themselves, glowing with the satisfaction that she was being noticed by everyone. As much as he enjoyed her pleasure, Rhett couldn't help but feel faintly ridiculous riding around in the insane contraption. _

Maybe I am getting old.

"_Did you see the look Mrs. Meade gave us as we passed?" Scarlett said, scornfully. "What does that old fool know, anyway? She's just so old-fashioned—just like Frank was, _old._" As usual, she didn't notice how much her thoughtless words affected him. "He never approved of me doing anything fun or youthful—he just wanted me to stay home and take care of him. He had more ailments than a man has the right to, Rhett, I swear." Rhett began to sweat, as Scarlett ranted on about her dead husband's more irritating qualities—all of which were directly or indirectly connected to his age._

"_How old was old Frank, when you married him, my dear?" he asked, casually. She waved one tiny hand dismissively. _

"_Forty something, fifty something—I don't know." His heart rate quickened with a sudden anxiety—he felt, inexplicably, like he was racing time. "He always wanted to go to bed so early. Frank didn't have the energy to stay up past nine o'clock, can you imagine? If he hadn't died when he did, rest his soul," She crossed herself, unthinking. "I would have been nursing him in his old age." She shuddered visibly at the thought._

_Rhett abruptly stopped the carriage._

_They were at the far eastern end of Wheat Street, near the edge of the city proper, and Scarlett turned to him, confused as to why he'd stopped his midlife-crisis mobile._

"_Rhett, why on—mmfh!" Her words were cut short by the sudden onslaught of his mouth on hers._

_She'd driven him to do the youthfullest, stupidest thing he could think of—kiss her boldly and in broad daylight. He grabbed her close to him, practically pawing at her as they necked in his open carriage. He was not kissing her with the slow sensuality she had come to expect from him—his lips were feverish, desperate and even clumsy as he dragged them from her mouth to her neck, nipping the pale flesh at the same time copping a feel indelicately through the thin fabric of her dress like some ardent teenager. _

"_Rhett—anyone can see—" she hissed, not realizing that he was trying to prove his virility to her in some strange way with even stranger male logic. He ignored her, tightening his grip on her waist and pulling her once again to his mouth, carnally devouring her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth like some sort of insatiable animal._

_When a farmer shouted encouragingly at them from his passing fruit cart, Scarlett finally wrenched herself away from Rhett. _

"_Rhett Butler, what on earth were you thinking?" she admonished. They both were breathing heavily, and he noted with boyish pride that she looked utterly and completely disheveled. _

"_Thinking has very little to do with these sorts of things, my pet," he breathed out, already feeling like a damned fool for his immature display. He _never _lost control in front of Scarlett in the way he just had…but to his supreme surprise, she was looking less and less shocked with each passing second and more and more…pleased._

"_Honestly, aren't you a grown man?" Her voice had irritation in it mixed with a hint of…pleasure? Scarlett's face was red, but he could see a trace of pride in her small smile as she smoothed her dress and adjusted her hair. Clearly the girl was pleased that she'd driven him to maul her at the smallest provocation. "Take me home, please."_

_Wordlessly, he turned the carriage around and started heading back to Pitty's house._

"_I swear, Rhett, you say I'm a child—back on the road there you were behaving just like some sort of…of…" She struggled to find the word, "Stripling, or something! I haven't been _accosted _in such an…enthusiastic way since before the War. Maybe you're more like my other beaux than I thought." She was as smug as she was embarrassed._

_Rhett sat up straighter in his seat, smirking at what had just happened, his good humor returned. He felt secure in the satisfaction that throughout that little display he'd been able to keep up with her, kiss for kiss, with ease. He wasn't dead yet._

"_What can I say, Scarlett, you bring out the boy in me."_

_He was thinking about getting the carriage painted a different color and anticipating having a nice cigar when he got back to the National. He felt young. When were they getting married again?_

Rhett was snapped out of his reverie by her impatient foot-tapping.

"My…fortieth birthday, like I said, was very quiet. I hardly noticed it go by—I was too distracted by you, my dear." _A stretch of the truth never hurt anyone._

"Oh, I don't know why I'm even bothering talking about this with you—you've only gotten better looking as you've gotten older!" she cried in frustration. "Men are so lucky—when I'm as old as you I'll be fat and hideous. Woman always have to suffer!"

She was on the verge of tears now, and Rhett was finding it increasingly difficult to comfort her, in light of how ridiculous her fears and insecurities really were—the woman in front of him was still far too beautiful for her own good, if truth be told.

"God, honey, how do you think you're making me feel with all this talk about being old?" he joked, rubbing her arm comfortingly, trying to lighten the mood. "If you're old, what does that make me? I'm likely to keel over any second now."

She gave him a watery, indignant stare.

"You, Rhett Butler, _old_?" From her lips, the words sounded as outlandish as the average fairy tale. "You aren't old. And don't even _think_ about making jokes about dying." Scarlett was deadly serious, and he stifled a guffaw at her next pronouncement. Her certainty was both sincere and absurd. "You can't die. You won't."

"If there's anything that I expected those British amazons to teach you, it was that men aren't immortal," he teased. She gave him a huffy glare—it mattered little to her husband, though, as the change of subject was bringing her back to her old self in no time. "Everyone grows older, Scarlett—either you live and grow old, or you die young." He was softer now, gentler—she leaned into him unconsciously as he spoke, and he wrapped one arm around her shoulder comfortingly. "It's the way of the world."

"Oh, I know that Rhett, it's only—" She stopped herself mid-sentence, her face concealed by her dark hair.

"Only what?"

"Only I _hate _it," she admitted, finally. It was as if they were in a carriage, nineteen years before, when she was pregnant with Ella, and he was letting her vent frustrations at him. "I hate the wrinkles, and graying hair, I hate being slower than I used to be, I hate knowing that Ella could have a child anytime now and I'll be a _grandmother_," the word flew off her tongue like poison.

Her husband thought for a moment, before saying, with the wisdom of his elevated years,

"Yes, you may hate those things, Scarlett—most people do—but did you ever stop to think about the pains of youth?" She looked confused, so he clarified. "Think, honey, about all those foolish choices you made when you were young—those silly, thoughtless, brainless—don't give me that look, Scarlett, I was _there_ for most of them, there's no use in pretending they didn't happen."

Nevertheless, as usual, he had more of a gift for irritating her than making her feel better. At least in the conventional sense.

"What stupid decisions, precisely, am I supposed to have made?" she asked, acidly.

"Well, pining after Ashley Wilkes, for one," he answered, smoothly. "And marrying Charles Hamilton and Frank Kennedy, for another."

"Don't forget dancing with you, that was definitely a mistake," she followed him up, dryly. "Marrying you as well."

"Well, you had no choice in the matter, I wasn't going to take 'no' for an answer," he dismissed. "The question I'm posing is," Rhett continued, at last reaching the point, "If you had all of the wisdom you have now _then, _do you really think you would have made the same choices?"

"Yes," she answered, unequivocally. Rhett sighed in exasperation. "Well, perhaps not pining after Ashley—I'd have the sense to know how useless he'd be as a husband during a war."

"You're missing the point, Scarlett." _As usual._

"As for marrying Frank, well—I did that to save Tara, I'd probably do it the same." She thoughtfully turned her head to one side, contemplating the point.

"If you were as wise then as you are now, you wouldn't have needed to marry old Frank," he muttered, wry self-derision in his voice. Green eyes blinked up at him in puzzlement.

"Why not?"

"You would have remembered your gloves when you came to the jail and you would have hooked _me_, Scarlett." The prospect of being 'hooked', when he described it in silky tones of amusement, did not sound as though it bothered him very much—in fact, from the way his nimble hands were sneaking their way around her waist in a frankly indecent manner, she guessed he found the idea appealing. "Of course," he whispered in her ear, pulling her closer, "I would have been furious with you after I found out your treachery, but knowing you were my wife would have probably offset the ire quite nicely."

"I had enough wisdom _then_ to know you wouldn't be an easy man to marry, Rhett," she mumbled back, playfully. She yelped a little at the squeeze he gave her, before he lowered his mouth to her ear again.

"You know," he muttered into it, huskily, "I still want you more than I've ever wanted any woman, Scarlett." _That's never changed—God help me._

"Forty and all?" she asked, timidly. The question was a sad attempt at offhandedness, but he could sense an underlying insecurity in it. He wanted nothing more than to quash that insecurity and reassure her of the truth.

"Forty and all." Gently, he pulled himself away from her, untangling their bodies so he could more easily cup her cheek in his large, weathered hand. "It's not the years that count, Scarlett—only what you've done with them. And I'd be hard-pressed to find a woman, young or old, who's done half the things you have."

"I feel so restless, Rhett—I know it was foolish, but I—I just wanted something to _do_." She sighed, heavily. "I can't just sit around and wait to entertain the grandchildren. I thought that this silly dress movement thing—"

"The Rational Dress Movement," he supplied immediately, not surprised that the name of the group whose meetings she had been attending escaped her.

"Yes, _that_," she agreed impatiently. "I thought that I'd feel young again, doing something so…_progressive." _She wrinkled her nose at the word. "Really, though, all those women are damn fools—they all want to vote and wear clothes like men—as if that's going to get them equality! If they had any sense they'd keep a firmer hand over their husbands and they wouldn't need to pretend like not wearing dresses makes a whit of difference!"

"I'm sure everyone back in the States will be fascinated to hear your unique opinion on the state of the women's movement, Scarlett," he informed her, irony lacing every word. She didn't notice, too transfixed with the first half of the sentence.

"The States, Rhett?"

"Why yes," he said, briskly. "Now that your thankfully brief stint as a feminist is over, we can go back the States, can't we?"

"And do what, precisely?" she asked, indignantly glaring at the way he persisted in bossing her around—she was a grown woman, for God's sake! Forty years old, and she didn't need her arrogant husband simply telling her that they were going this place or that place without her consent.

"Well, when we return, we could do something very exciting to recapture our youths—how do you fancy riding a hot air balloon?"

"What's that?"

"It's the latest contraption—well, I say latest, they supposedly have been around since the Three Kingdoms—but they're very fashionable right now, they've just started making them functional for pleasure rides. And you know—if you don't want to revisit your home state yet—they also launch them from the Tuileries Gardens in Paris, we could return there." He could see that not even the dimmest bulb was lighting up—so he explained more fully, "They're balloons attached to baskets, Scarlett—you can fly in the air and steer them. The basic idea is to create buoyancy by—"

"I'll keep my feet firmly planted on the ground, thank you, Rhett Butler," she interrupted, firmly, her emerald eyes containing a steelier glint than usual.

"But Scarlett—air travel is the way of the future." He tried to hold back a smile as he phrased his next pronouncement carefully, "It's what all the, eh, _young people_ are all doing."

"Well the 'young people' can fly up into the air and crash into the sun and die if they want to, but you won't see me doing the same," she imperiously proclaimed, jabbing him in the chest with one finger. He had to resist clapping for her and her ridiculous understanding of astronomy. "And," Scarlett continued, narrowing her eyes sternly at him, "You can't convince me otherwise—no more treating me like a child and simply _taking_ me places wherever and whenever you feel you should. I'm far too old for that sort of nonsense."

_And finally ready to admit it,_ he thought, wryly.

"And here I thought that none of that feminist claptrap rubbed off on you," he said, with humor. Suddenly she blushed in embarrassment.

"Oh, Rhett, you won't tell anyone that I went to those 'no frock' meetings, will you?" she asked, anxiously. "If ol' India Wilkes found out, I think I'd die with shame."

"Your secrets are safe with me, my dear—always." He grinned mockingly and ran a hand through his graying hair. "Of course, I'm getting up there—soon I'll be senile and I won't remember anyone's secrets, including my own," he joked.

"Oh, fiddle-dee-dee," she said dismissively, rearranging her hat.

She grasped his arm and they got up, walking down the park's alley slowly—or slower than they might of when they first got married, 17 years before. The couple walked in silence for a few moments, before Scarlett broke it, with,

"You know, it's hard to believe in a few short years we'll be celebrating your _sixtieth_ birthday, Rhett," she mused, thoughtfully. He had grown less sensitive to his age as he'd grown older—the thought of sixty didn't bother him at all as he stood side-by-side with a woman who'd only just accepted she wasn't a girl anymore.

"It does give one pause." A short breath, before—"Do you suppose they'll be a 'Irrational Dress Movement' for me to join then, and keep the spirit of attractive but unreasonable female attire alive?"

She elbowed him in the side with as much strength as she'd thrown crockery at him the first day they met.

"Oh, shut up, Rhett."

"Happy birthday, my dear."

He took it all in stride—just as he always had.

* * *

**All boring historical details as accurate as we could make them. The portrait of the British lady—fiction, even if she really was a historical character, lived on that street and had a husband by that name. **


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